


It Will Get Better

by Tmae



Category: DragonFable
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tmae/pseuds/Tmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took a while for it to sink in. As in, really sink in. The first few weeks or so he spent in a complete daze, barely aware of what was going on around him, of where he was. Of who he was. And now he stands here, hands in pockets, staring at a slab of stone with his own name engraved on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Will Get Better

**Author's Note:**

> Don't have much to say about this one. I wrote it on a whim and I still kinda like it so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It took a while for it to sink in. As in, really _sink in._ The first few weeks or so he spent in a complete daze, barely aware of what was going on around him, of where he was.

Of _who_ he was.

And now he stands here, hands in pockets, staring at a slab of stone with his own name engraved on it. Something heavy seems to have taken root in his heart, and it doesn’t seem like it will be leaving any time soon.

They all think that he’s dead.

He’s here, he’s standing in front of his own grave, and all of his friends think that he’s dead.

He’s not exactly sure how to feel about that.

Slowly, he takes a step forwards, as though the world would fall out from beneath his feet if he were to move too fast. Then he takes another, and another, and then he shakily pulls a hand out from the warmth of his pocket and into the chilly air.

He runs it over the top of the grave, the feeling of hewn stone beneath his fingers, of anything beneath his fingers, almost foreign after so many years unable to feel.

Eight years with spiritlooms fused to his arms, five without hands at all; thirteen total without the sensations of texture and hot and cold in his hands.

A sweet smell drifts upwards, and he crouches, hand moving from stone to the softness of petals.

Zinnias. A small bouquet of zinnias. Magenta, scarlet, white and yellow. A voice drifts back to him from years gone by and the heavy thing in his heart clenches.

_Zinnias are really pretty, don’t you think? They’ve got kind of a sad meaning though. See…_

His fingers dance over petals.

_…a magenta zinnia means lasting affection…_

They carefully circle around the bottom of the flowers, not too tightly, not too softly.

_…a scarlet one means constancy and white means goodness…_

He lifts the flowers as slowly as he had approached, drinking in the vividness of their colours.

_…and a yellow one means daily remembrance. That’s not what makes them sad though. It’s that all together, different colours of zinnias mean…_

He inhales deeply, enjoying both the scent of the flowers and the feeling of oxygen entering working lungs.

_…thinking of an absent friend._

The heavy thing clenches tighter and he almost drops the flowers. He is less slow as he puts them down, as he shifts from a crouch in front of the grave to sitting with his legs splayed out and back against it.

_Thinking of an absent friend._ That’s what he is now, isn’t it? An absent friend? But these flowers weren’t left for a friend merely missing. It comes crashing back onto him then, the things swirling around his mind which had been momentarily chased away by the flowers, _they all think that he’s dead._

Not only that, but he’s so much _younger_ now. He overestimates his strides, overbalances doing almost everything, trips over his own limbs more often than not. He has a life ahead of him. Years that he has _already lived._

His eyes are _stinging_ but the scent of the flowers isn’t that strong, and they smell nice anyways, so why…

Something bubbles up, he hugs his knees to his chest and he _sobs._

* * *

Warlic doesn’t know why exactly he is here. He doesn’t really have a purpose or a right to be here. He never even knew him. He doubts the young man even knew his name, or could match his name to his face.

And yet…he finds himself in Mortem, wandering towards the grave.

Maybe it’s because of how much the hero always talked about him. Of how they would talk for hours on end about adventures down in the subterranean city, of how they could get sidetracked as easily as Cysero in telling one of those stories, how their eyes lit up with laughter and wonder and light when they told of their many mishaps with the white-haired soulweaver.

Maybe it’s because that light was missing when they showed up to drag him out of his tower to deal with the problems the Rose was creating; how they avoided talking about him and almost _flinched_ when he asked if they had seen him again, how he had ended up finding out what had happened from Ash, about how they had cried for days when they finally returned to Falconreach.

Whatever the reason, he is here now.

The air is chilly, though that would be expected for the tail-end of autumn, and his pace is slow, until he hears it.

The unmistakable crying of a child.

He picks up his pace a bit then, before stopping completely when he finds the source.

A young boy, probably barely older than ten or eleven, legs held tightly to his chest and face buried in his knees, shaking with heavy sobs.

Warlic takes in the sight, the way the boy is curled up against the grave – _a family member perhaps? –_ and before he even realises he has moved, he is crouching at the boy’s side. He reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, and opens his mouth to speak – though he doesn’t have a _clue_ what he would say.

And then the boy looks up; red hair falls haphazardly around his face, strands sticking to it where it is wet, thick trails of tears continue to flow as unhindered as a waterfall - the only parts of his face that _haven’t_ turned red and blotchy are those underneath the tears. There is such a look of _agony_ on his face that Warlic feels like something sharp has just pierced his heart.

The young boy’s eyes have sclera almost completely red from the amount of tears produced, and they are puffy beyond belief and the irises are _golden._

Somehow, he isn’t sure how, he knows what must have happened.

“Oh,” Warlic says, the only word he can utter. “ _Oh,”_

The boy’s body shudders as he gasps out another sob, drawing shallow hiccupping breaths, and before he has a chance to think about his actions, Warlic has dropped from a crouch to sitting and has wrapped his arms around the boy because goodness knows that that was all he wanted when this happened to _him._

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, shifting slightly as he feels hands move from hugging knees to chest to clutching fistfuls of fabric, an instinctive reaction of seeking comfort.

“I know what it’s like Tomix. It _will_ get better, trust me,” his words are barely a whisper, but from the way that the hold becomes tighter, he knows that they were heard.

And, yes, certainly, this will be awkward when Tomix has calmed down enough to understand what is going on but right now he is lost and scared and confused and _hurting_ and Warlic may be the only person on Lore who can understand, to some extent, what he’s going through.

So, for now, the two simply sit in the shadow of the tree, the now setting sun sending long shadows across the grass, and hold on tightly.


End file.
